Impulses
by FantasticalnessGirl
Summary: John has one thing on his mind and he just can't get it out head...Sherlock. Johnlock fluff! ***NOTE*** This is my first fanfiction, so I understand that it's not perfect. Just bear with me!


_Impulses_

John awoke with stiff limbs and a sense of confusion. He had a particularly horrific dream, which consisted of Sherlock killing people and draining their blood to fill a swimming pool. He was deranged, and he was about to stab John when he woke up.

Sherlock. It seemed no matter what kind of dream John had, Sherlock was always present. He was such a big part of his life now, it seemed almost impossible to imagine his day to day life without him. The way his sharp, greyish blue eyes took in crime scenes, the way his brain could deduce the tiniest things from the smallest bit of evidence.

The way he looked at him.

John already knew that he was slightly enamoured by Sherlock's charisma and body, but it somehow had increased within the past few weeks. Unexplainably, John was finding himself falling in love with his flatmate and best friend. Sherlock always has that one special look, that one special smile for him, and whenever he coaxes it out of Sherlock he's as happy as a child would be when they get a parent to smile at them. Unfortunately, John was finding it to be increasingly more difficult to hide his feelings for Sherlock from him; nothing ever escapes that man's notice, and he seemed to be noticing John's changed behaviour more and more.

John just hoped that Sherlock wasn't appalled by his feelings for him.

Grumbling, John dragged himself out of bed and headed downstairs to make a cuppa for him and Sherlock. That was how mornings normally go in 221B.

Thundering down the stairs and yawning, John scratched at his arm and put the kettle on the stove. He shuffled over to Sherlock's door and knocked like a polite flatmate. A deep groan that could only be from Sherlock came from the other side of the door.

"Time to get up, Sherlock," he said, then meandered back to the kitchen to fetch teacups. Just as the kettle was boiling, Sherlock immerged from his room with only his pants on, a crooked robe thrown over his shoulders and his curly hair disheveled. John inhaled sharply when he saw him and looked away, blushing. Why, _why_ did he have to fall for him? The asexual consulting detective, the only person in his life that could give less than a damn about love. The doctor mentally scolded himself and turned his attention to pouring the tea.

"Morning," Sherlock rasped, his voice hoarse from the lack of use.

John grunted in reply and handed him a cuppa, then sat down in his favorite armchair to read the paper. His cheeks grew slightly warm as the detective sat down across from him and studied him intently, like he did whenever he was at a crime scene.

"You're awfully quiet this morning, John," he pointed out, his eyes never leaving the doctor's face.

Smartly keeping his eyes averted (he didn't need Sherlock seeing his dilated pupils), John replied with, "Well, there isn't much to talk about, is there?" He cursed himself as he felt his cheeks go red. John turned the page of the paper and pretended to be interested in a story.

"Why are you blushing?" Sherlock asked in that deep, rich baritone voice that made John stop and listen to it vibrate through the air. The doctor finally looked up and met the detective's stormy bluish-grey eyes.

"Am I?" he said, feigning surprise. "I don't know. It is a bit warm in here."

Sherlock's eyes just narrowed a little, but he thankfully dropped the subject. "Lestrade called last night. He wants us to come in this morning to help with a murder case."

"Alright. When?"

"He said as soon as possible."

John folded the paper up and set it aside. "Then we'd better get dressed."

In less than an hour, both men were dressed and in a cab on their way to the morgue. While London whizzed by, Sherlock handed John a file.

"An interesting case," he explained as John leafed through the contents. "It seems a woman was walking alone a few nights ago when she saw two men fighting in the street, drunk. She called the cops, but when they showed up they found nothing-except her body."

John held a photo up to the light. A woman in a light blue dress lay mangled in the centre of the street, blood seeping from a hidden wound in her head.

"Lestrade says the death was from blunt-force trauma. I want to make sure."

The cab sped down the familiar roads to the station as the doctor looked through the rest of the file. More photographs, a script of her emergency call, family member information. When they arrived at the morgue, Lestrade was waiting with Molly.

"Hello!" Molly cheerfully greeted them with her large, innocent smile. John smiled and said hello back, but Sherlock instead turned straight to Lestrade.

"Show me the body," he said bossily, but in a way that made John want him just a little bit more. Lestrade and Molly showed them to where the woman lay on her designated cold slab of metal.

She must have been very pretty at one point, but now most of her facial features were bashed up and broken. Her nose, bent at a 60 degree angle; some teeth, completely gone or chipped. Under her hair were clear fracture marks along the skull where dried blood was still caked. After a quick visual sweep of the body, Sherlock clapped his hands together.

"Well, you were right, Lestrade. Her death was indeed blunt-force trauma. She received several hits to the head and face with some heavy object-probably a bat, because a shovel or something similar would have left more telltale marks. She was murdered by someone who was drunk, probably the very two people she phoned in about. They were trying to kill her quickly, but they were obviously too intoxicated to aim straight. What their motive was, I don't know. But you'd better track them down, because they are most definitely your murderers."

With a final nod, Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room. John scrambled after him, waving goodbye to them as he followed the detective out the door.

"I still don't know how you do that, Sherlock," John said, trying to sound irritable but coming off more as awed.

The detective shrugged. "I simply observe, John."

Out on the street, Sherlock and John were about to hail a cab when John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him down closer to his face. There was no way he could hold this back any longer, the stress in his chest was becoming too much to bear. John turned Sherlock's face so that it was facing his and gently pressed his lips onto his.

It was a relaxed and deep kiss, and it felt absolutely _wonderful._ When John pulled away, Sherlock was staring at him, a whisper of a smile playing across his lips, but his eyes conveyed that he was confused.

"Let's go home," John said, suddenly nervous. What if Sherlock didn't like it? What if he never wanted to see him again? Panicking, he hailed a cab and took a deep breath. At least he had finally gotten the courage up to do that…

Right?

When John and Sherlock returned home, John was sweating bullets. The detective had said nothing to him on the way home, just stared blankly at the seat in front of him. He had probably overstepped the boundaries of their friendship.

John led the way up the stairs to their flat, blushing and hyperventilating, Sherlock close behind him. They entered the flat and acted like nothing happened, stripping off their coats and throwing them over the arms of chairs. Then, suddenly, it all changed.

John had just set his phone down on the table and turned around when he found Sherlock standing alarmingly close to him. He was staring deep into his eyes with an intensity John hadn't ever seen before.

"Sherlock…?" he asked, curious. What was going through that brilliant mind of his right now?

Abruptly, he reached out and grabbed the front of John's shirt with his long, supple fingers and pulled him close to his face. The doctor's breath caught in surprise as the detective smiled that special smile he never gave anyone else and kissed him gently.

John's lips were met with Sherlock's surprisingly soft ones, and after a confused second of hesitation, he kissed him back. Once the detective realized John was kissing back, the kisses got more aggressive and passionate, and Sherlock's fingers dug into John's shoulders as he pulled him closer. The kisses were amazingly deep and intense for someone who has never had anyone before. John felt himself being steered backwards a bit, and he let Sherlock push him into the fridge and pin him there.

Sherlock intertwined his fingers in John's hair, softly prodding his tongue against his lower lip, wanting to increase the ecstasy of the kiss. The doctor's lips parted slightly, and when their tongues touched John gave an involuntary moan that couldn't be helped. John set his hands on his flatmate's hips and pulled him closer, making him grunt. John steered Sherlock towards the couch, and Sherlock fell headlong onto his bum, separating their lips.

Their lips were not apart for long, though; as soon as the detective had sat down, the doctor was straddling Sherlock and sitting on his lap, kissing him fervently. Sherlock moaned; a deep vibration that reverberated through his body and made John shudder. The detective's pale, ivory coloured limbs tangled with the doctor's, and John's fingers cupped Sherlock's face. After several minutes, John finally pulled away, gasping for breath.

Sherlock stared hungrily at him, his lips swollen from the fervour of their kissing. He said nothing.

"Well," John said, slightly out of breath, "I think 'flatmates' would be an understatement of how do describe us now."

Sherlock laughed, a deep sound shaking his whole body with its power. "You already know I don't care about what other people think about us."

John smiled and rested his head on the world's only consulting detective's chest, listening to the racing heartbeat inside it. "And don't ever let that change."


End file.
